Yes, I finally updated! Hurray! Truth is, I was drowning in classes last semester, and now I've finally been able to lighten the load. I'll have more time to work on this story. I think I'll be able to update once every other week, so I'll start posting routinely. I'm also drafting up a couple of chapters for "If Sybil Was A Servant" so expect to see an update to that in a little while.

Please review or PM me your thoughts. Constructive criticism or any note at all is greatly appreciated!

Tom was no good at cards, but he had a decent poker face. Alfred, on the other hand, was sure to let out a gleeful whoop when he drew a lucky hand. Yet somehow, the redhead ended up with more money than anyone else.

"Alright fellows, that's my last round. I have a date with Her Highness tomorrow morning. She'll be posing for some photographs."

Several complaints sounded from around the room. No one who quit while they were ahead was looked upon favorably by the Wednesday night regulars, but Tom was glad that Alfred had made the first move.

Tom justified a bit of gambling now and then. He hadn't come into debt through the practice, and he was careful to limit the amounts he spent and make reasonable bets, especially since he owed money outside of the games. Yet tonight he had fallen behind a bit, and he didn't care to add any more onto his tab. He was in agreement with Alfred and picked his last bill up from the table. His friend collected his winnings and the two bid adieu to the rest of the group, who continued to play on.

"Alfred," Tom teased as they left the apartment. "Our personal invitation to the press conference says 11:45. How much beauty sleep do you need?"

Alfred held his hands, which were full of bills, up in defense. "Call me crazy, Branson. I wanted to quit with a surplus in my hand."

They bantered as they walked, teasing each other as only good friends could. Tom wasn't quite sure how they had ended up so close. It must have been through work. Tom wrote the best articles in Michael Gregson's newspaper office and Alfred's height gave him an advantage when taking photographs. In a group of pushy reporters hoping to get the best scoop for their paper, Alfred had always been able to calmly navigate his way and take the clearest photos of all. They had been paired together on the biggest stories and eventually formed a brotherly bond.

"Well, this is where I part ways, Tommy boy."

Tom slugged his shoulder. "I told you, never to call me that!" he hissed.

Alfred laughed and gave a two fingered salute as he strolled down the sidewalk. "See you with Her Highness tomorrow!"

They headed in their separate directions: Alfred to his large studio apartment where he staged elaborate photo shoots, and Tom to his tiny one bedroom that came at the cheapest price. He had been there for almost five years now and still had trouble making rent on time, thanks to the measly salary he received from Gregson.

Tom strolled through the quieter part of town, looking up at the stars. The night was a little on the colder side for Rome. He hated the congestion of the city, the lack of green landscape, and most of all, the dryness. He didn't think he could ever miss the rain in Ireland, since it came far too often and when it was least welcome, but it kept everything lush and lovely. It was far too dry in Rome. As soon as he paid off his debt to Gregson, Tom would go right back to Ireland. Perhaps he'd find a flat in Dublin.

He was surrounded on every side by old artifacts and ruins from ancient times, but Tom would have traded it all to be back home. He cared about history, but after having been immersed in history for years, he felt more of an annoyance to the crumbling ruins than a tie with his ancestors.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he almost didn't notice the figure on the bench.

"So happy..."

He jumped, putting a hand over his mouth to trap a rather girlish scream that had threatened to escape from his throat. Tom looked over to his right. A slim person was lying down on the cement bench, muttering unintelligible phrases. He would have ignored it, thinking it was just a regular drunk, but the voice had sounded almost...feminine. He took a closer look, shining his penlight on her.

It was definitely a woman. A very young one at that, as she looked as if she had just left her teenage years. As he watched her, she stirred. She muttered something.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"The youth will be the key."

She was clearly intoxicated, though she didn't smell of alcohol and she didn't have any tell-tale spills down her shirt. In fact, she was dressed rather nicely for someone lying on a bench. She had beautiful features; high cheekbones, dark hair, and full lips.

"Miss, excuse me."

She held her hand up toward him. "How do you do?"

"Uh... very well, thank you," he replied as he accepted.

"Charmed."

"Charmed too."

"You may sit."

"I think you're the one that ought to sit up." Tom pulled her up until she was upright. "You're much too young to be arrested."

She put a hand on his face. "You're a handsome fellow."

Tom gently moved her hand back onto her own lap. "Er, thank you. I think. Say, why don't you get on home? It's late. Wouldn't want you to get picked up by the police or anything."

She didn't respond. He waited, and she fell forward, resting her head on his shoulder. Her snores were just barely audible. He shook her awake. "You can't sleep here, not outside."

"Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb
Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb
In the blue cavern of an echoing deep."

She looked at Tom through long lashed lids. "Do you know that poem? Oscar Wilde, an Irishman just like you."

"Well dressed and well-read. And you're sleeping on the streets. Care to make a statement?"

She straightened her spine, that particular phrase causing a reflexive action within her. "We should not forget the old ways, for there are plenty of things we can learn and better ourselves with, but progression is inevitable and we should not cling to our old ways so tightly that we fear and resent change." She smiled at him winningly.

"I couldn't agree more."

"11:45, conference with the press,"

"Those who can't handle alcohol should not consume it."

She put her head on his lap and looked up at him. "You think you're so smart. I'm not drunk. Haven't touched a drop."

"Right. Now I'd love to stay and chat, but…"

Tom's words faded away as he looked up to see a taxi coming his way. He let out a sharp whistle. The taxi stopped, and Tom stood up sharply, causing the girl to fall face down onto the cement bench. He had already made his way over to the taxi when he paused to look back at the girl, realizing that she now had a bloody nose. He composed a sentence in broken Italian to the taxi driver, asking him to wait, and went back to help her. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed up the dripping blood which had fallen onto and stained her cream colored shirt. She hardly seemed to know what had happened and grasped the handkerchief tightly in her hand.

I can't just leave her on the street, can I? Someone's bound to take advantage of her. Especially since she looks injured.

"You can take the taxi."

"A taxi! How marvelous." She muttered something about always wanting to ride in a taxi as he shook his head.

"C'mon, you have money on you?"

She yawned. "Never carry money... never need it."

Tom contemplated his options, and with a long sigh, while cursing his inner Samaritan, helped her into the taxi. He got in with her, if he was going to pay for taxi fare, he might as well benefit himself.

"Where do you live?"

She didn't acknowledge him. He heard a slight snoring sound.

Tom shook her again. He stretched her cheeks.

"Colosseum…" she grumbled.

"You're not that drunk. Where to?" he pinched her elbow, trying to rouse her from her sleep.

"Colosseum!" she yelled again.

The taxi driver pleaded with Tom with the few English phrases he knew, throwing in Italian words for the rest. "My bambinos at mi casa, is late, no? dove going? scusi?"

"Alright! Alright!" As a former cab driver, Tom knew how the man felt. It was late at night and he just wanted to get home. He gave his address, "Villa Marguta, 51 please."

He nodded and began driving. During the short ride to the apartment, Tom still couldn't weasel a straight answer out of the girl. She just kept repeating Colosseum.

"Villa Marguta, 51!" The cab driver exclaimed. "One thousand lira!"

Tom pulled his last bill from cards out of his pocket. "Change?"

The driver nodded. He took the toll and handed Tom the rest. "Thank you! Grazie tante! Good, eh?"

Tom tried to phrase the Italian words. "Puoi... mi scusi. Parla inglese, er, bene?"

He nodded vigorously. "Si, si,"

Tom handed the cab driver another bill.

"Grazie tante!"

"You're welcome, now listen close. I want you to take a little bit of that, and take her wherever she wants to go. Capito?"

The taxi driver nodded. "Si, si, capito. Capito. Thank you, grazie. Mi scusi! Me excuse!" he exclaimed as Tom started to walk away. He pointed to the girl. "No, no, for you."

Tom shook his head and pointed to the extra bill. "Take her where she wants to go!" They both looked back at the girl, who was sound asleep. "She's not my problem!" Tom explained.

"Problema? No, no mi problema. No problema," he gestured at Tom, "No mi problema," he pointed down the street. "Polizia problema?"

"Hold on, she's just a kid. She can't be picked up by the police!"

The taxi driver pointed at Tom. Tom in turn looked at the slumbering girl. "Alright," he grumbled. "My own fault." He grabbed her hand, shook her so that she would wake up, and helped her out of the taxi.

"Grazie!" the taxi driver called as he sped out of sight.

Tom looked at his new responsibility. She was close to sleep, so all Tom had to do was guide her and she followed. He led her into his apartment. As he unlocked the door, she put her head on his shoulder, drifting off while standing up. He shrugged her off. He gently took her elbow and led her in. She collapsed on the bed.

"What a lovely elevator. So comfortable."

"Hate to break it to you, but this is my room. My entire house, actually. I've been stuck here for five years now. Do you need to use the phone? There's one across the hall you're welcome to. Where are you from?"

"How remarkable. I've never met anyone who lives in an elevator." She dozed off, then sat up sharply. "O'Brien, don't worry about the crackers, just the nightgown will do."

She looked at Tom. "Can I spend the night here? Someone told me I couldn't sleep outside. Do you have a silk nightgown for me?"

"I guess there's no other option, really. You'll have to sleep on the couch though. I'm afraid I don't have a nightgown. Haven't worn mine since last year. But here's a spare set of pajamas. You can put them on."

She held out her arms. "I've always wanted to wear pajamas. Just the top half. How thoughtful."

"I think you better put on both parts."

"Will you help me dress?"

This was not the situation Tom wanted to be in. He untied the kerchief from around her neck. "There you go. You've got the rest, right?"

She looked drowsy beyond comparison. He shook her again. "Look, you need to stay awake long enough to put your clothes on, got it? Sing a song or something."

She had started singing some jazzy tune while unbuttoning her shirt.

"Is that... Cole Porter?"

She smiled. "You're the toppppp, yoooou're the Coleseeeeum!"

"Quiet! All my neighbors are asleep!"

She half whispered, half sung, "You're a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeare's sonnet, you're Mickey Mouse!"

She was more awake now, but still as loopy as ever. "Want to know my favorite poem?"

"Oscar Wilde. You already told me."

"You kissed me!"

"Excuse me?"

"You kissed me! My head drooped low on your breast; with a feeling of shelter and infinite rest. You kissed me! My soul in a bliss so divine; reeled and swooned like a drunkard when foolish with wine."

"I don't think Oscar Wilde wrote that." Although the drunken part certainly applies, he thought.

She gave him a look of annoyance, exaggerated by the remaining traces of blood on her nose. "Josephine Slocum Hunt did."

Tom was more amused than annoyed at her conversation now. He walked over to the windowsill where he kept some brandy and poured himself a glass.

"May I have some?" she pleaded.

"No. I'm sure you've had plenty already. Why is that your favorite poem?"

"Because it appeals to me, even if it's not the most poetic."

"And why does it appeal to you?"

She looked at him straight on. "Because I'm a hopeless romantic who has never experienced any form of romance in her life. I've never been kissed. I've never even been alone in a room with a man." She looked down at her half-unbuttoned shirt, splattered with drops of blood. "Not even with my clothes all the way on."

Tom laughed.

She glared at him. "It's not funny, you rat!"

Tom loosened his necktie. "You know what, I'm going to step out for a minute. You go ahead and change into the pajamas. Remember, you're sleeping on the couch." He walked out with his glass still in hand, and walked around the block once. She should be able to get dressed in ten minutes.

When he came back in, brandy drained from the glass, he found her curled up under the blanket, sleeping soundly in the pajamas. On his bed. No amount of shaking would wake her. He dragged the couch around so that it was parallel to the bed, and with a grunt, he pulled the sheets out from under her so that she rolled onto the couch. There she shifted, mumbled "So happy," and fell back asleep.

Tom changed into his pajamas, and as an afterthought, tucked a blanket around her shoulders. He took her shirt, washed the blood out of it, and hung it up to dry. Hopefully in the morning, everything would be resolved quickly and easily.

"Goodnight," he called, as he climbed into his own bed and turned out the light.

O'Brien had notified Dr. Clarkson of Princess Sybil's disappearance. He had wisely told the Ambassador, who had developed a father like affection for Princess Sybil during the short time she had been there. He had his staff search the grounds and every inch of house, but to no avail. In the meantime, he had sworn everyone to secrecy and classified it as a top-secret crisis.

Between the Ambassador and Dr. Clarkson, the decision was made to tell everyone that Princess Sybil had taken ill and would not be able to attend the events scheduled in the next twenty-four hours. A message had been sent to their Majesties informing them of the matter, with promises to search all of Rome if necessary.

In the meantime, they could only pray that she had fallen into the right hands...